


Imperfect Perfections

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/F, Light Bondage, One Shot, Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 22:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12046056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera visits Joan's cell; it's nothing new. This marks the start of the masochism tango.





	Imperfect Perfections

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'd gotten a prompt over Twitter about fulfilling some more prisoner!Joan fics... And so I fused together numerous prompts into a single one shot. I pulled this out of thin air and a bottle of wine, I swear. This goes against my very nature as a meticulous planner.

This marks the start of the masochism tango. Attached to her utility belt, Governor Vera Bennett's radio crackles to life. The device begins to sing. Sierra One, Sierra Two, Sierra Five – the numbers needn't matter; the confirmation remains the same: the coast is clear.

With the start of a new shift, she has time before the next rotation. Heels click and clack across the recently waxed floor. A hollow thud signifies the early morning hours before dawn's revelation. Small, sinewy legs travel far and fast; there's no ghost for her to follow: merely the shadow of her own failure. She walks with a sense of purpose, her head high, her blue-grey eyes staring at the impending darkness ahead

This is how it begins and this is how it will always end.

Vera doesn't know why she does this. Why she returns to the source of her pain. Why she retreats back to the magnitude of her suffering. Sucking the air through her teeth, chopping her anxiety and tension to bits, she brings her feet together. Stands tall, but not proud.

Never proud.

Flicking her wrist, she taps her badge to the door. The light switches green to give her the go ahead. Vera tries to emulate the stoicism of her maker. She puts on a mask to hide the doe's eyes, the driving need for pain, and hides it behind furrowed brows. A hardened stare.

The Devil, you know, wears a cunning, human skin. Two, scarred fingers serve as a makeshift bookmark for the page that Joan Ferguson had been so thoroughly engrossed in. The title's lost upon Vera and lost upon anyone who pretends to give a shit. That elevated manner of thinking eludes most, only suits the master manipulator who assumes the throne that is her tight, little cot.

“You're _laTe_.”

Late for an important date: the unraveling of Miss Bennett. The white rabbit comes strolling in. Garbed in teal, Joan issues her disappointment through a delicately maintained ruse. The novel rests on the nightstand by her side. It's not a best-seller nor will it ever be, but she likes it all the same – appreciates the context for its verbosity.

“Being Governor requires my attention elsewhere. I can't be solely devoted to you,” Vera quips. The clenching of her jaw gives away too much: a powerful indication of her stress.

Poor thing feels weighed down by the crowns.

At the thought, Joan smirks – a Cheshire grin that hides her ill intent. The remark is so very Vera-esque: kittenish rather than full of bite and claws.

“Mm,” Joan muses aloud procuring such a hollow sound. She pats the pats the spot on the bed beside her. “Someone's in need of aTonemenT. Now, Vera. Have you come to take it?”

Each T gains a harsher edge. A click of the teeth, a volatile snap that reveals a glimpse of the animal within. The fox in the hole rears up to her full height. Dutifully, the smaller woman doesn't offer up hesitation, but goes to sit down. Seeks punishment by a firm, correcting hand.

“So are you.”

_We're both guilty._

“Get undressed,” Joan commands.

It ignites a fire within.

The submissive adheres to the dominant's wishes.

Her fragile heart yammers within her chest. Bit by bit, she takes off her uniform. Sheds off the layers, the complexities, the restrictions. Loosens the tie. Unfastens the buttons to her blazer. Nimble hands sink lower to undo her trousers. Teeth graze her bottom lip in the process.

Nude and exposed, listless hands fall into her laps.

The prison watches her, a ravenous glint buried within obsidian depths.

“Good,” Joan concludes and it's the closest to a compliment that she can possibly afford. Tongue strikes the roof of her mouth. She analyzes the situation at hand. To have the Governor this vulnerable elicits a desire that stirs in the belly and burns hotter than perdition.

They're in Hell all the same; might as well make the most of it.

Numerous possibilities present themselves. To have the doe bound and gagged presents an immense allure – ripe for the slaughter, eager for the sacrifice. A deft tongue slithers out. Caresses the thin curve that's a smirk.

“Lay on the bed; take your punishment. Is this not what you came for?”

“I don't—”

_I don't know; I don't know._

It's become a broken mantra that disguises the truth.

“Enough, Vera. It's pathetic watching you fool yourself; your petty delusions of a dream life are laughable.”

A finger taps Miss Bennett's mouth to silence her. Traces the soft, gentle curve that's beautiful when she smiles, but even more stunning when she weeps those Magdalene tears. The cool air of the cell washes over her, hardens her nipples, weakens her resolve. Wide-eyed, there's a glimmer of the naive deputy she used to be: buried underneath the surface, desperate to please.

So, the Devil hovers over her. Yanks the blanket from underneath her petite, build. The sheets tear. Piece by piece, they rip. They fray. It's symbolic of the dismantling that perfectly describes their fucked up history.

White fabric entraps frail, slim wrists. She's a butterfly caught and prepared to be cut open for a violent vivisection. Joan fastens the makeshift cuffs with a tight knot, as though she's doomed to repent over and over again. The roof of her mouth runs dry. Vera shifts, testing the bounds. Her tiny struggle warrants a firm slap to the ass. A stifled gasp follows. Devious ministrations compose a primal orchestration.

She feels hands wrench apart her legs, blunt nails marking her thighs with angry, red crescent moons. The sudden weight feels akin to guilt pressing down on her. Joan straddles her lap, leaning forward to test the restraints. Teal sweats rustling. The sound that follows is as quiet as a viper slithering through the flatlands, hidden underneath the tall blades of grass.

Beneath the pressure of their jointed bodies, the cot creaks. Old springs moan to match the sound of Vera's stifled pants. Fingers gently open her: her body an offering to unholy pretenses.

But she's robbed of the touch, of the nails raking over her damp, groomed curls, of the fingers that dance across her wet slit.

She whines at the loss, her head falling back on the pillow, her bun beginning to unravel.

There's a hand caressing her throat, seeking out the carotid artery, aiming for the jugular.

Ferguson whispers into the shell of her ear, accompanied by teeth nipping at the lobe.

“You want it?”

Temptation swings sweetly in a silken tone, her breath naught but smoke caressing the curve of her neck.

She does.

She always does.

 


End file.
